By TBL K.Garner
Writing this feels like taking a selfie. Normally, focusing too much on myself makes me uncomfortable. But I hope it can help others who relate. Let me begin by saying that I feel more like a soul than a physical body. Like souls tend to be, I’m moved by and connect with art. I feel nestled beneath towering prison walls when I listen to a dark Johnny Cash album. Like I’m lying in a field of bluebonnets when the Dixie Chicks sweetly sing. My soul resonates with both sides of this dichotomy—one masculine and baritone, the other femme as a fiddle, but both southern, Texan, and wild as a forest fire.
During my time as a creative writing student at the University of Houston, I often heard both Christianity and country music described as kitsch. I think some of my professors considered all things southern to be kitsch. Well, I’m sure it doesn’t get any cheesier than admitting I first found Jesus in country songs. Music and Jesus are both spiritually intertwined in my heart like a rope braid. Something in my southern soul can’t let go of either one. Even though I don’t like her conservative politics, I just can’t help but sing along when Miranda Lambert sings, “He can calm the storm and heal the blind and I bet He’d understand a heart like mine.”
I do think Jesus understands my heart—the core of my soul. But I don’t know anyone else who does. When I came out, my Christian friends either dropped like flies (because they were too worried for the fate of my soul) or were flat out confused. After all, I don’t look like I score highly on the Kinsey scale. I’m in a seemingly heteronormative marriage and I prefer dressing femme. Even the beauty mark that lines my chin is a feminine twist on a beard.
“In this journey of mine, I’ve identified with many different labels—bigender, hormonally intersex, and questioning. But I’ve found comfort in my identity as ‘queer.'” -TBL K. Garner
In this era of Trump, however, I’m afraid to talk about my faith—especially in this voice of mine, sprinkled with Texas twang. I’m afraid those who don’t know me will think I’m one of those “evangelicals” who put President Cheeto Puff in office. Instead, I find myself retreating more into solitude, often “so lonesome I could cry,” as Hank Williams would sing. I find myself worrying about how people see me, if they see me at all. Although my southern stubbornness won’t let me let go of Jesus, I no longer hang out in Christian circles—I’ve been burned one too many times. You’ll find me in poetry communities instead—a welcoming space to keep exploring my identity.
In this journey of mine, I’ve identified with many different labels—bigender, hormonally intersex, and questioning. But I’ve found comfort in my identity as “queer.” There are many gray areas of my identity, and queer encompasses those spaces. I feel as though I could write a 10,000 word essay on the numerous queer aspects of my identity and, at the same time, not have the words to express the full extent of my true self. I’m thankful for queer theorists like Eve Sedgwick who were able to write the words to help us better understand who we are. I understand that I exist in the gray area between masculinity and femininity, the gray between intellect and faith, and the gray between being southern and progressive. I exist in the clouds before a storm.
My appetite for Christianity and country songs isn’t usually seen as compatible with queerness. Ironically, my taste in music and faith is the queerest part about my art. My queer sense of masculinity is synonymous with my love for Johnny Cash and my palm on the Bible. As Tim McGraw sings in “The Cowboy In Me,” it’s “the urge to run, the restlessness, the heart of stone I sometimes get.” It’s a love I refuse to give up.
